


spiral heaven

by azureforest



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Backstory, Fist Fights, House Cleaning, Nonbinary Character, Other, Pre-Canon, Squabbling, Stargazing, Summer Vacation, Trans Male Character, Unresolved Romantic Tension, weirdly domestic shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-11-01 23:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20544026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azureforest/pseuds/azureforest
Summary: Even now, in the cold, in the dark.The heavens spiral on.(a young, grieving temple knight takes a week off to invite three dark knights into his house. it goes both better and worse than one would expect.)





	spiral heaven

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry, i. i swear i have a basis. there is in fact context for this! just... since zephirin uses a dark knight's arm and is likely the only one who uses one in the ranks of the tk, who could teach him but ompagne?
> 
> as you can see, it... went on, from there, and now i have a whole thing with him and fray, and dragged some friends down with me, to boot. im invested and will not stop.
> 
> that said, please enjoy!

House Valhourdin had a little cottage house for Coerthan getaways- For any time of the year, any time they wanted. He remembers how his mother would fuss over the sunlit hallways and dust everything down, bring strawberries, make them into jam and tarts, remembers how she would take him to the riverside to do the laundry with their own two hands. He remembers the tree in the yard that he clambered up halfway just to sit where the trunk branches, remembers the smell of wildflowers on the breeze when he faced the wind; But he doesn’t remember what his father would’ve done for him there. Still, it’s a fond memory where he pressed it into the corners of his mind, a pleasant little thing of sturdy wood with high fences, iron swirls on the gates where ivy was left to run amok. It is- was- home, home away from home. It was, it was, once.

Now, he does not know.

It's only been two summers since his mother had passed away, but it’s still the first place that comes to mind when someone tells him to think of a private, abandoned place. Sidurgu gives him a dirty look when he salutes and tells Ser Ompagne of the cottage; Fray looks up from where they pick at the bandaging on their forearm and raises their eyebrows. He rattles down the information, direction and coordinates like a report, too dry for how it makes his heart feel like it's bursting with a feeling he cannot name.

Ompagne sighs and places a heavy hand on the knight's head, pushing it down as the younger realises his habitual mistake- and Zephirin makes a disgruntled noise as his hand unfreezes from his Templar's salute, hovering over his teacher's wrist awkwardly.

The man simply laughs, ruffles his hair, and Zephirin splutters.

"He won't grow anymore if you keep doing that," Sidurgu quips with a shite-eating grin. Fray snorts, lips quirking crookedly. The au ra rolls his eyes.

"In fact," he continues, leaning on the hilt of his guillotine, "He might end up shorter than Fra-"

_ THWACK_. 

_ **"ACK?!"** _

Sidurgu shrieks, a strangled thing, voice cracking hard in late-blooming adolescence. "_Fuck_, shite, ow, what the _fuck?!_"

Fray retracts their armored foot, glaring up at the other; gets ready for another kick, too. "Say that again, bastard. I dare you."

They get a low growl in response.

All the while, Zephirin watches, still squashed under Ompagne's palm as Sidurgu tries to duck behind his sword, still unaccustomed to his growth spurt. Fray stands up, pointed ears twitching in equal parts indignation and amusement.

"Should I step in?" Zephirin asks, quietly, unsure whether he's allowed to duck out from underneath the man's gauntlet.

"We've bruised your pride quite enough for now." Ompagne simply replies.

Were he a lesser man, he would've scowled. Were he a greater man, he would've brushed Ompagne's hand off and away. Instead, he quietly bears the weight of it in mild discomfort, watching his juniors squabble among themselves. Giving up on seeking refuge behind his blade, Sidurgu scrambles onto a crate, shouting something about the _Fury's heaving tits_ as Fray threateningly stalks after him.

Both elezen shake their heads and sigh.

* * *

It's no problem for Zephirin to ask for leave- all he needs are some well-placed words about wishing to leave his parents his respects, having to check up on the old cottage and so on. There’s no real reason his superiors would deny the Valhourdin boy a few days off for a good cause; He’s a prodigy after all, hardworking and earnest, calm and just, skill blessed by the Fury’s hands-

Or some such.

The real difficulty comes from getting Ser Ompagne, Fray and Sidurgu past Falcon's Nest. Zephirin imagined that if getting Ser Ompagne out of Ishgard already was difficult, getting the au ra through would be a struggle; Both? That would take a miracle on his part, but the trio insisted they would be fine- Fray snapped something about useless lawful machinations, while Sidurgu grumpily fumbled with his tattered cloak, his face torn between a sneer and a grimace.

"We've practice," The older elezen reassures him when Zephirin tries to protest again. "You know this."

They do. He does. This is far from the first time they had a getaway from the stone and steel of Ishgard and most certainly not the last. He's watched as Sidurgu ducked through hidden passages he knows like the backs of his hands, as Fray practically melted into the shadows, as Ser Ompagne scaled a wall with an ease no man should have at his age.

Zephirin knows all this full well, so he sighs.

"I'll meet you there."

* * *

The hills roll ever onward, rocky crags covered in grass and moss where the cracks would allow them to take root. He sees glimpses past the walls and the great watchtower, verdant and gentle in the morning dew. Falcon's Nest only stirs when he passes through in the early hours, a guard waving him through tiredly, some others milling about, low voices, chewing on bread rolls and fruits. The sun opens its eyes and breathes warmth into its hands, summer hanging gently about them all.

His destination lies beyond. A brief rest has both Zephirin and his chocobo ready to take to the roads again, Minerva’s beak stained purple from her favorite berries, round and ripe. They trot along the winding path, watching the sunrise paint the mountains brighter, pass under the old mossy arch and smell the hanging flowers, cross the bridge, talons clicking underfoot. The river runs, as it always has, and the elezen follows it home.

Granted he could still call it that.

Dismounting at the edge of the outcrop on which the cottage stands, he can see the Gorgagne’s mills working tirelessly. The wheel turns slowly, the sky weaving into the spaces between, light jumping in and out like games of hopscotch and jump-rope. He does not move to enter the garden just yet, a bit afraid of what emotion might rear its ugly head under his skin when he looks at the wood floors and patterned wallpaper. Minerva thoughtfully crunches on the apple Zephirin fishes out of his pack.

“Minerva,” he murmurs to the bird, rifling through his pack again and latching a letter-pack onto her saddle. “You know how to get back to Falcon’s Nest?”

The bird “kweh”s happily, bobs her head up and down, then cranes her neck southwards and bobs it again with more enthusiastic “kweh”ing. Ah. Good girl. Zephirin makes a mental note to get her some rolanberries later, smiles and strokes her neck. “Run along, then. I’ll be back soon.”

“Kweeeh!” she flaps her wings and- _Chomp._

“Hey, stop that- _Minerva!_”

After she attempts to affectionately chew on his head as her customary form of goodbye and trots off, he fixes his hair and smiles and waves every time she looks back to flap her wings and hop about. Once she's out of sight, he takes a deep breath, then another, and another- And when he’s certain he’s prepared to either return home or look upon something he doesn’t recognize anymore, he turns around.

* * *

When Fray, Sidurgu and Ser Ompagne arrive, they find the path riddled with too-long plants, the rusted and overgrown gate ajar and Zephirin squatting in the garden, dirt on his face and knees, pulling insistently at a particularly large and stubborn weed. He doesn’t hear their approach despite Sidurgu’s incessant grumbling and too-heavy footfalls, Fray’s odd snort when they spot Zephirin all but rolling in the dirt, teeth grit as he braces his feet against a rock.

Ompagne is the first of them to call out- It’s cautionary, just to alert him of their presence, but the young knight startles regardless and loses his grip on the weed. Alarmed, he goes tumbling back with a bitten curse and a flurry of dead leaves.

Sidurgu splutters, loudly. Fray guffaws. At least Ompagne politely covers his snickering with a hand and utters a quiet “Ah.”

“Shite.” Zephirin grates out.

Fray laughs even harder, a hand repeatedly slapping Sidurgu’s arm for want of anything else to hit, Sidurgu likewise doubling over in hysterics, having to brace himself against the rusting fence to keep from toppling over entirely from both the force of his own laughter and _hey wait, why’s Fray hitting him again?_

Caught in that thought a moment too long, Sidurgu shoves Fray over, but their hand shoots up, intent to drag him down with them. The two topple over against Ompagne in a heap of limbs and colorful language- There’s name-calling involved, snatches of 'son of a Behemoth', 'motherfucker' and 'chocobo’s arse' sparking out of the chaotic tangle. Inexplicably, Zephirin finds himself comforted by the sight from where he sits in the dirt with a handful of ripped-off leaves clutched between his fingers.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Purposely pushes aside the carefully-set words in his head, because it’s feeling a little more like _home_\- Home away from home, thoughtless and young, like loud barracks in the open air. 

Really- He's just a soldier. Perhaps in this moment, he’s less than one. The lines between _Temple_ and _Dark_ blur as he wipes the sweat off his brow, gets up with a grunt and wrenches the gate open the rest of the way, squealing on its hinges. Fray and Sidurgu look up from where they’re seemingly attempting to commit manslaughter, the looks on their faces as if remembering they’ve forgotten to properly laugh at his gardening misadventures.

Finally cracking a smile, he gestures broadly at the overgrown bushes, the rampant weeds, at the ivy creeping up the walls with reckless abandon- Dirty windows, chipped and peeling paint, a bird’s nest tucked into a corner under the roof. It’s a bit of a wreck, to be honest, practically left to its own devices for half a decade, perhaps longer- An empty shell of the place he'd sometimes called home, but somehow, the gaps in his heart that this empty building left are beginning to haphazardly fill themselves again.

“Welcome to the Valhourdin family cottage.” he announces, a touch too loudly.

Fray furrows their brow. “Looks like a Fury-forsaken dump to me.”

Zephirin almost grins at their casual blasphemy. “Exactly. That’s why I said it’s abandoned. Now come and help me make this place habitable.”

* * *

It’s dark inside- They keep it that way, only briefly throwing the windows and curtains open so they won’t contract a dust allergy before they collapse of heatstroke. There is a point where Zephirin thinks he absolutely wouldn’t have made this visit alone; Every illuminated corner feels haunted in a delicate way he cannot place, hands reaching to pull him back into a fugue where he’ll be drowning in the past, choking on a sentiment thick and bittersweet, on heady, confusing grief. He’d have suffocated on the smell of apple tarts, of lemon tea, of the hearth crackling bright and merry in time to the turn of pages, throttled by lengths of blanket-yarn spilling across the hardwood floors. He’d not thought of all this in years, he hadn’t thought it would all come back with such a vengeance-

But he is not alone, because he is here mopping the musty floors with two odd young men and an equally odd older one. He may as well be the odd one out in this motley crew, but perhaps he fits better than he thought; because right now, he’s all but a rogue knight too, harboring three practitioners of the dark arts underneath his roof, breaking bread, sharing words and curses and laughter, gently cruel and violently pure alike. Briefly, he wonders what the Fury sees when she looks upon them, but pushes the thought aside with the hopes that this place is truly godless, godless in the way it haunts, in the way it groans, in the way it wrenches its nails into healing wounds. When he goes back to Ishgard once these days are over, he’ll just be the Valhourdin boy again, professional, pristine, perfect to the mortal eye. Halone may do as she pleases. But for now, he is not that man, he is far from holy radiance, and he is not alone.

_i am not alone._ The thought settles on him like a veil of starlight, safe and soothing. The wet rag is cool underneath his palm, grounding in the summer heat leaking through the drawn curtains and walls. Continuous noise and occasional conversation fizzes in his ears, alive and unpredictable, leaving him to forget the silence that would creep in otherwise. He recognizes Sidurgu's complaining without straining for it.

“Come now, scrubbing floors builds character.” Ompagne states in response to the grumbling, like a simple fact of life. To Zephirin, that’s what it is. Fray hums, doubtful but dutiful, while Sidurgu pulls an entirely unsightly face.

“Being shoved in a crate to be smuggled across a border probably builds more character than this, and if that’s the case, I've done more than enough of that for today.”

Alright, that face is warranted. Zephirin’s ear twitches as he looks up in mild alarm, realising that he’d entirely forgotten to ask- Just _how_ did they get out of Ishgard? Fray simply shrugs in that offhanded, rough way they do. “Hey, we didn’t even close it.”

“You _covered it!_ With a _tarp!_”

Ompagne takes a deep breath, lets it sit in his lungs for a few moments, then exhales solemnly. “Sidurgu, I’ve already told you this- and I’m still sorry for telling you to get in the box- but there’s little other way to get to Falcon’s Nest than an airship without taking a larger detour, and we didn’t have that kind of time.”

“Actually Ser, you didn’t have to come in such a hurry,” Zephirin interjects. “I thought it’d take you three at least a day to arrive, which is why I tried to start with the garden and have the place somewhat presentable by the time you did. If I did anything to give an impression of urgency-”

“Can it, Worm Boy.” Sidurgu snaps, then squints at Ompagne, blatantly ignoring the flabbergasted temple knight echoing ‘_worm boy?_’ and waving his free hand in emphatic irritation. “Listen to him! We should’ve come over the mountains instead of shoving me in a swiving _box_.”

“You’re too big to hide in the cargo compartment as is.” Fray notes.

"Piss off. Wish the airship actually squashed you between the wine-barrels."

"Do you now?" They shake their rag out, subtly but deliberately flick dirty water at his face. "Not the alcohol-related demise I had in mind when I said I'd rather _drink_ myself to death."

“Fuck _off!_ Why’d we have to come to _Zephirin’s_ anyways.” Sidurgu huffs, wiping it off with his sleeve, reaching over to shove his own rag into the bucket next to him and wring it out. “Could’ve just gone somewhere near Dragonhead or the Aetherologicum again, or- I don’t know, the Shroud?”

Ompagne sighs, putting down the pole he was batting cobwebs away with. There’s one in his hair that noone mentions out of either politeness or spite. “You two need to practice for open encounters- We won’t always have stone, steel or foliage to use to our advantage. There’s not enough of that in the Central Highlands anywhere we won’t get caught, much less in the Shroud.”

Droplets hit the hardwood floor as Sidurgu wrings out his rag a little too hard, before throwing it on a sideboard with a slap, lips drawn into a tight line, glaring flatly. “Easy for you to say- You had what, some wannabe cocksucker’s forgeries and a funny hat? Ugh.”

Ompagne’s ears flicker a little, lips curling in an amused smile. “We’ll find a better way back. Possibly with less crates.”

“Fucking _crates,_” Sidurgu growls, stalking over to the chairs where Zephirin was clearing the decorations off the fireplace to clean, and shaking out an old blanket with far more force than necessary.

Zephirin sneezes. Fray snaps their head to him, before turning back to wiping down a dirty window. The elezen looks like he’s about to say something, but his face scrunches up before he can get a word in, teeth grit in a way that makes him look like he’s going to sneeze again- But the danger passes, and he exhales a quiet breath of relief. Fray pauses in the middle of moving to the next window and gives him some incredibly sarcastic applause. On the other hand, Sidurgu looks Zephirin straight in the eye. Lifts the blanket. Grins.

And before Zephirin can even begin to utter a “don’t you dare--”, the au ra gives it another hearty shake, cracking it like a whip- From one moment to the next, dust and old crumbs and _Gods know what else_ fly into the air, golden in the sunlight, and Zephirin recoils, drops the vase he was holding with a mighty shatter, and _sneezes_.

For a moment, it is dead silent. Then, there’s nonchalant rustling as Sidurgu folds the blanket and sets it on the tea-table with a smug smile. Though the dust is causing a considerable amount of discomfort to him and his bound chest, that single moment of utter pettiness made it worth it. It doesn’t stop Fray from crossing their arms, unimpressed but amused all the same.

After all, who knew temple knights could sneeze like mice?

The silence drags on, the dark knights content to watch the rapid progression of emotions on Zephirin’s face until he reaches up to throttle it. “You,” he picks up after that brief pause of pure, unfiltered horror. He works his jaw, struggling to find a word that’s not wholly uncouth, and finds nothing.

“_Arsehole._”

Fray snorts. Not uncouth enough in these environs. “That was pathetic. Try something like _whoreson_ next time.

For a brief, delirious moment, he actually tries to work his mouth around the syllables, but they refuse to roll off. He purses his lips in silent apprehension, too used to the half-hyur’s tongue at this point for it to edge on disapproval, and shakes his head. “Arsehole.” he repeats, instead. It gets his displeasure across just fine.

“Heard you the first time.” Sidurgu huffs with a sneer, pulling at his shirt- Clears his throat, sticks his tongue out at the next blanket with a wheeze. “Not my fault this place is a filthy wreck.”

Zephirin scowls, quietly moves to wipe down a bookshelf off that’s significantly farther from where Sidurgu is standing, and resorts to more familiar venom. “If you’d like to leave, be my guest. I’m not holding you here.”

It seems to find its mark- The Xaela shrugs, but offers no further complaint, knowing to appreciate a free roof when it’s offered. Before it gets yanked away. He’d very much not like to sleep out in the wilds tonight. Still, not his fault when the elezen’s so easy to pick on. So stiff. So...Templar-y.

“You’re picking up the vase.” Zephirin adds. The other just flashes his teeth in reply.

“Sure, Squeaky.”

Pointed ears flick upwards in alarm- Ompagne chuckles, while Fray parrots some parody of whatever ungodly noise he made earlier; It is, indeed, quite squeaky. He also has a feeling it isn’t an exaggeration, which just makes it worse. His mouth opens, then snaps back shut, then opens again, his voice cracking when it tumbles out.

“_Squ--?!_ Wasn’t _Worm Boy_ enough for you!?”

“No.”

“Halone, spare me.” Zephirin mutters, letting his head fall against the wood with a gentle thunk. For a moment, he wonders why he puts up with this- But then he remembers, two summers ago, that this would never have happened. It’s better than back then, back when Sidurgu refused to even talk to him, only glaring at him in unpalatable and frigid silence. It’s better that he snorts, sneers, laughs, calls him names, makes him drop various fragile items, speaks, speaks, speaks. The vase is but a small price to pay. Swallowing his pride, he crouches to pick up the shards himself, waving Sidurgu off brusquely when he takes a few steps in to assist. It's an apology in itself, as laced with amusement as it is.

“He’ll be fine,” Ompagne sighs, though noone asked, rolling his sleeves back up from where they slipped down. “There’s no blood from burns.”

“Ser Ompagne.” Zephirin mumbles, mortified. Not him, too. "I beg of you.”

“Then beg.”

“I- No. _No._”

Ompagne chuckles, the dead serious tone he’d briefly taken melting away as fast as it came, and Sidurgu rolls his eyes again, lifting his hands in some kind of full-body shrug, muttering a string of something that Fray laughs at, and takes the next blanket out back to shake out. The laughter rings out, loudly, loudly, the sound full in the sparse sunlight. Even though Zephirin’s quite certain they’re still laughing at him, he can’t bring himself to truly mind.

For a mercy, Ompagne doesn’t point out the small, satisfied smile on his lips as he clears the porcelain shards away.

* * *

“Again.” Ompagne commands for the umpteenth time that night. The twilight is shallow, making room for day, clouds doing little to conceal the light spilling over Coerthas once more. Fray hauls themself up from where Sidurgu had successfully knocked them down, all but the au ra hefting sword and shield instead of their customary arms for this round of the drill. There was something mentioned about being able to soundly whoop his arse with their normal weapons, besides the fact they were playing the roles of average Ishgardians- Not hellborne hounds. Fray barks a noise, raw and dissatisfied, blond hair matted to their forehead with sweat and dried blood; Falls back in step, circling the au ra alongside the two elezen.

They don’t quite have the numbers for this exercise, but they make do. Sidurgu rears again, blue eyes aglow, runes sparking down the length of his blade as he charges, breaking an opening in their formation with the mass of pure night that comes barreling into their shields- it cracks and whips about him in an abyssal torrent as Fray and Zephirin go tumbling over again, but splashes apart when Ompagne catches an opening to his left, yanking Sidurgu aside, effectively disarming him as his weapon is knocked from his hands. He rolls for a few fulms before he stops.

“Eat dirt.” Fray hisses, sitting up with a wince. Zephirin sighs from somewhere next to them, motionless and squinting up at the brightening sky. From his own spot, Sidurgu groans, a hand mechanically reaching up to grab the one Ompagne offers to help him up. It still drips with pitch from where the shield had burst when he was hurled onto his side, onto the dark cloak swathing his form.

“Your focus is failing. Remember that the completion of the incantation can make the difference.” their teacher says, not unkindly. “Your entire left side was open for any warier temple knight to take advantage of.”

Sidurgu hauls himself up in stubborn silence, drags himself over to his guillotine and uses it as a crutch until he regains his footing- Blue eyes flit to his two peers for extra confirmation, narrow and flat.

“Still,” Zephirin breathes in reply to the silent inquiry. “His choice in clothing was wise for this exercise. I caught myself misjudging his trajectory, speed and point of impact, especially in the twilight- Though mobility is still an issue, and cloth is easy to grab onto, as Ser Ompagne rightly did.”

“The line between bravery and recklessness’ a messy bitch, too.” Fray adds, poking a particular patch of dirt with the tip of their practice sword, before jabbing Zephirin in the side. He jerks away, sitting up in alarm. “You edged too close to the latter there with that half-arsed rune.” Fray finishes, serenely going back to poking the dirt.

The Xaela shakes the last vestiges of dark off his arm, watches them splatter on the ground in specks of void before disappearing. Picking at the tattered hem of his half-cloak, he scowls, fluffs out his baggy tunic again. “Well, shite.” He takes a step, staggers a little. “Again.”

Fray stabs their sword into the earth and gives him a flat look, pretends to roll their sleeves up despite them being shoved into their gauntlets for good measure. “I’ll knock you out myself if your aether doesn’t beforehand.”

“Ah-” Zephirin straightens up a little before anything could escalate, “May I suggest a break?” he asks, looking up at their mentor expectantly before Sidurgu could protest. The au ra shoots him a dirty look, but sits down heavily regardless.

“Enough, Sid, you’ve improved upon that rune considerably- It’s only a matter of repetition, now. Good work.”

Ompagne smiles. After a beat, Sidurgu’s brow scrunches up, lips pursing. For a moment, his fingers fumble a little, before he turns away, rubbing the tip of his nose.

“Take the fucking compliment!” Fray jeers. Sidurgu flops over sideways, yelling a halfhearted _shut your whore mouth_ at his friend. They crawl over and splash an icy _Cure_ on his face in retaliation. Frowning, Zephirin begins casting as well, a weak _Clemency_ to his thigh where Fray had aimed to knock him over during their turn, one to his stinging forehead where he’d skidded against the grass too hard.

The four of them gather together, a tangle of aches and receding pains and healing magic that is barely enough for their hurts. They face the sunrise and boo in its face, because they are tired and it should piss off so they can rest and sleep.

The sun does not piss off, and they carry on.

* * *

Fray is the first to stir later that day- The fabric of the couch is softer than most beds they’d ever slept on, they think, ruefully picking at the loose fibre next to their face as they contemplate getting up. Sidurgu is jamming his foot into their hip from where he snores, and they’re a little surprised at how they hadn’t been kicked off yet- Not willing to test their fortune any longer, they sit up and slide off the seat, leaving the au ra grumbling and shifting in slumber. The back of their neck prickles as they try to gauge the time.

“...”

When they turn, green eyes flit away. Their fingers curl. When Zephirin shifts in his bedroll to resume poorly-feigned sleep, Fray stalks over and drags him upright by the arm- The elezen is surprisingly good at being a deadweight, stiff and unresponsive save the awkward purse of his lips.

“Up.” they whisper. Zephirin finds his footing, eyes far too clear to have just been asleep. (Or perhaps he’s a morning person.) He doesn’t seem to have the grace to complain or seek excuses for watching (staring), instead shaking their hand off and walking to where they’d thrown their equipment at dawn. Fray takes the blade he hands them, feels its weight in their hands. Zephirin’s cradling some of their armor into a faintly clanking pile, forgoing several pieces to not wake the other two- Sid sprawled out on the couch now that there’s no second body restricting his range of motion, Ompagne sleeping soundly on the floor.

It’s an unspoken agreement as they step out into the afternoon, because they might as well- Zephirin would take any training he can rake into his hands from other dark knights, and something about the shortsword and shield had ill-suited Fray in a way they’d rather banish the feeling from their body entirely. They drag their equipment through the mess of a garden, toss it over the gate, clamber up after it. And then they trek a little further, near the apple-tree, where they can see the mills working ever on and on.

They pull on their armor- Light breastplates, shoulderguards, wrist-braces. Stretch, warm up, get used to being of the waking world before they heft their blades and do repetitions, practicing blows and parries that they’re technically far beyond. There’s the occasional mutter, periodic sighs, heels digging into the earth, hacking branches from stray bushes and low-hanging trees in shows of accuracy and reach.

“Spar with me.” Fray demands after a little while, when their claymore has remembered it’s a part of them, voice low and gravelly. Zephirin lets the tip of his zweihänder dip to the floor as he flexes his left hand, before nodding mutely. Dropping into a ready stance, Fray begins circling, slowly, slowly.

Mirroring their footing, Zephirin counts to three beneath his breath, and no sooner than when the third count passes from his lips, Fray leaps forwards like a beast possessed- The elezen’s knocked off his feet by the hilt of their blade, falling back unto his arse before righting himself again hurriedly, hissing under his breath at himself at how obviously unprepared he’d been. Fray stares, sharp, silent, predatory. A breath passes as Zephirin checks his side- bruised- And the fight resumes as they clash again, and again, and then again, struggling to catch the other off guard, to downright overpower each other with sheer force. Zephirin has the better technique, father reach, but Fray douses themself in their darkside, a whirl of pitch and steel, aether thrumming as strongly that the elezen can’t help but think they would've made an excellent mage.

What happens next is- to be truthful, neither are sure what happens. Something between them winds taut between the clash of practice blades and the baring of teeth, between each savage swing and the thrumming pulse of aether- It’s almost audible when it snaps, their weapons in hand one moment, a bare fist flying forwards with a manic glint the next.

There’s no mistaking the dull thud-crack of the most basic kind of violence. Someone’s nose breaks. Someone screams, like a wounded beast, and rears. Red dribbles from Fray’s split lip, Zephirin tastes iron somewhere near his throat as he goes toppling backwards into the lush Coerthan grass, light armor digging grooves in the dirt, ripping up roots and wildflowers. Fray all but throws themselves upon him, moving to grab him by the hair before he retaliates, striking out blindly into their face, feeling teeth against the skin of his hand. The mongrel and the viper roll down the hill, hissing and spitting, all claws and fangs and teeth. They bruise, a heaving side, an eye to swell shut later, grass-stains along their clothes and black-blue from sticks and stones they hit on their way down. But still they stop, as all things do, chests heaving, dirt and blood under their fingernails.

Oh. This really is a mess.

They would not have gotten away with this with gauntlets.

Fray exhales shakily from where they’ve pinned the elezen down, tongue running over the cut on their lip. They do not flinch, gaze unwavering as aether gathers; flares slightly too hard, flash-welding the broken skin unevenly, sure to leave a scar it might not have otherwise. Snarling, they bare their teeth, both men uncertain if it’s in a threat, a grin, a promise. Green meets bright, bright, bright gold, fixating Zephirin with a gaze so intense it may as well burn him clean through and set fire to the pasture. Fray draws their fist back, one more time.

Held up by the collar, soundly bested by someone half a fulm shorter than him, Zephirin bursts into laughter.

And Fray can do little more than stare- At the blood still dripping from his nose, staining white teeth flashing in a smile, at his shaking shoulders as his head rolls in glee. Their voice cracks as they watch Zephirin cover his mouth with a shaking, dirty hand. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

A pause. He shrugs as well as he can. “I don’t know.”

Displeased, Fray shoves him back into the dirt, a hand clasping over his eyes, roughly pushing him into the ground. Fear flickers across his mind, but it had been flittering about is head for a while now, a constant presence like the angels peeking over his shoulders, their wings crushed under Fray’s weight, under his back. So it doesn’t matter. What does is that he stays still as Fray roughly channels a _Cure_ to the ruptured vessels in his nose, the swelling slowly sealing his left eye shut. It burns, low and numb like the onset of frostbite. He cannot stop smiling.

“Stop that.”

He does not. He’s still not sure if he can. “That was fun.” he says, instead. The hand over his eyes does not lift, much less withdraw. Fray’s grip tightens, minutely. Fingers swipe through the blood half-caked on his face, wipes off where it dribbled down his chin and still runs across his jaw. He waits, patiently.

“Are you sure you’re a temple knight?” they ask.

“Yes.” he replies.

“You’re insane.” they say.

“My nose hurts.” he observes.

“Should I break it again?”

“Do what you want. You’ve won.”

"..."

The tension in Fray’s hand leaves. Blood smears across Zephirin's cheek where they for fractures. He can feel their aether coiled in their wrist, contemplative, before it washes over him again, a little cold where it lessens the swelling. They take a halting breath, oddly hesitant, before asking. “When’s the last time you felt alive?”

They can feel Zephirin’s eyebrows raising under their palm. “Beg pardon?”

“When’s the last time you lived?”

The elezen huffs. “What kind of question is that?”

Fray retracts their hand, slowly, slowly. Zephirin does not open his eyes. “Did you feel alive just now?”

The wind passes, cooling blood and sweat. The boughs of the tree overhead rustle and sway, afternoon flickering along the gaps like fireflies, radiant will-o-wisps. Fray leans away, weight settling on his chest as Zephirin tilts his head back, eyelashes fluttering against the sunlight, pale skin mottled with black-blue-red, red speckling his shirt, ruby dried on light plate.

“I did.” he laughs, again. “I still do. Thank you.”

Fray hums, brows knitting, before they roll their eyes. “You’re crazy.” they repeat, but can’t quite keep the baffled smile out of their voice. “Don’t thank me for beating you to a bloody pulp.”

With a huff, they move to the side to collapse in the grass next to him. Zephirin opens his eyes to the sound, and stares up into the blue above. Idly, he notes that Fray doesn’t move to heal their own hurts save what they had already done to cause the fresh scar on their lip. They lie there, as their own meadows where black and crimson flowers bloom, looking to the light while tinged in soothing shadow.

There is mirth in the breath they set free.

He thinks he understands.

* * *

Thankfully, neither Sidurgu nor Ompagne ask questions when they drag each other back in, bruised and beaten- Par for the course, really, when swinging blades as savagely as they do. While the head and face are general taboos during spars- Well, rules were meant to be broken, right? The way Sidurgu’s horns are still scratched and chipped in places and the nick in Ompagne’s ear are testaments to that. It’s only the fresh scar on Fray’s lip that draws cyan eyes to them, sharply, makes them linger overlong.

For a mercy, the au ra still makes no move to really _ask_\- it’s evident they just beat the veritable shite out of each other, and that there’s little more to it. Things like this just happen, it always does- He knows all too well how easy it is to get swept along in Fray’s pace once they make it their own, a roaring midnight blizzard with blazing golden eyes. These things _happen_.

Just not with the temple knight. Not with the righteous boy with the star-shards in his eyes, the same one that does not yearn for the abyss, but follows justice all the same. There’s brief wonder if it’ll become regular, almost-certainty that it won’t.

Sidurgu is right. It does not happen again. The viper, caged and muzzled, settles in the corner of Zephirin’s heart, slumbers with the ice Halone encases it in until the day he shatters it. It writhes, green eyes wide, hissing and crying its betrayal from where it tries to keep the pieces together.

It does not happen again.

(But that doesn’t mean Zephirin doesn’t hold that moment oddly dear, the second he heard the crack of Fray’s fist against his face more than he felt it- The moment his restraints broke, the minutes he felt alive, alive, alive, skin singing with blunt and simple pain. He recalls the bewilderment in their eyes, his own laughter alien, unhinged, uncontrolled.

Some nights, Fray touches the scar on their lip and remembers.)

* * *

The rest of the days tick by as without incident that they can with this company; There’s another squabble about heights which ends with Sidurgu nursing bruised shins and Fray crumpled in a heap on the floor after Sidurgu kneed them in the unmentionables, a day where Zephirin inadvertently starts a splash fight while washing their grimy clothes in the river, various others peppered through the days between training, cooking, eating, lazing about on the endless meadows. It’s the last two days of Zephirin’s allowed week of leave, and Fray's already making jabs at Sidurgu about being crammed into crates and barrels in airships again, despite Ompagne’s repeated assurances they’ll go the long way around, this time. It simply prompts more complaining.

Zephirin’s loathe to admit it, but as many bruises and wounds and playful insults he’s endured over such an unbelievably short period of time, he’s going to _miss_ this- This, unrestrained camaraderie (if he’d the right to call it that), the flash of teeth and metal, Ompagne’s hand heavy on his head whenever he falls back into holy habit, their running freely under the endless summer sky.

_(would halone forgive him if he admitted it?_

_that’s assuming she’s watching, in the first place.)_

Later that evening, in the fleeting sunlight, Sidurgu chips a horn from a particularly reckless maneuver- Perhaps it was the summer heat addling them, but he lost his footing and ended up… Colliding, with a tree. Too disoriented from the damage to his horn to continue, Ompagne had dragged him off kicking and protesting after Fray gave him a scolding and rudimentary healing- Leaving them and Zephirin to listlessly swing their blades about, too overheated to do much else, before they gave up and collapsed into the grass, dumping their water flasks on their faces.

Eventually, peace catches up to them.

As they lay in the fields, grass tickling their noses, they find their gazes drawn to the skies above; the stars dance in time with the fireflies, hold rhythm with the crickets in their slow waltz around Hydaelyn, voices raised in song for all who cared to hear. Heavenly chorus, ditties in the dark, lanterns in the Crozier and candles in the Brume, shining like rhinestones in black dresses, like cat-eyes in the alleys. The night bridges the gaps the world left between them so their hearts may beat as one.

This is no communion. There is no hum of aether, only that of the night when their roughened hands brush past each other in poor imitation of a secret handshake.

Fray barks a laugh, their voice rough and raw.

Idly, Zephirin wishes the night could last forever. He gives no voice to the thought, but presses it into a star he hopes will fall.

The skies hold their peace.

  
  
  
  


(it holds his silence still, years later, when the world shatters by thordan’s hands- when shattered heart feels too heavy in his grip, hangs like a stone in his chest; when he feels a familiar abyss, a cold coerthan night roiling under the warrior of light’s skin, feels golden eyes boring into his skull.

_oh_, he thinks, the clouds lifting from his sight.

and he falters. fray’s blade bites through his armor, into his skin, burning black, dark, bright against sacred aether. he cannot remember how to breathe, watching those eyes, gleaming, gleaming in the dark like the stars they looked upon.

falling, he looks upon their flickering form and

_smiles-_

  


_\- so that’s where you went---_)  


* * *

Even now, in the cold, in the dark.

The heavens spiral on.

  



End file.
